


Magic rush

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I swear I'm not sponsored by visit london dot com, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Romance, Sex in a Car, Sex in the Bentley (Good Omens), Smut, Tenderness, angst with a sexy ending, don't worry I physically can't write a sad ending for them, if that's not a tag IT SHOULD BE, ridiculous amounts of mutual pining, the hard long task of undoing Aziraphale’s clothes, which I guess is my brand now I give up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 09:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: One night is nothing to an immortal being. It’s the blink of an eye. One night won’t be enough to convince Aziraphale to stay. And yet – one night can change everything, can’t it?God and Satan and everyone in between, Crowley has to hope it can.~~~After the world doesn’t end, Aziraphale is overwhelmed by his own feelings for Crowley and gets cold feet. Crowley only has one night to change his mind before he leaves.





	Magic rush

**Author's Note:**

> Bit angstier than my usual fare, but I think I compensate for it more than enough by the end.  
Title and inspiration from [Heartbeats by José González](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ik_BQYbbZ5U). Because apparently these days I’m in a constant state of needing just the smallest nudge to go feral over A/C all over again. As one does.

After dining at the Ritz with Aziraphale, Crowley had driven home smiling to himself the whole way there. Like a lunatic. Like a lovesick idiot.

He should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy, shouldn’t he? And yet, somehow, after six thousand years, he still hadn’t learned his lesson.

For three days, he’d kept his mobile in his pocket the whole time, making sure he’d turned the volume all the way up. And then he’d stayed home anyway, just in case Aziraphale called him on the landline and didn’t feel like trying his other number.

No calls had come.

At last, after several times he’d grabbed his phone, changed his mind and put it back down, Crowley had decided to call. No answer.

He’d felt a spark of worry in his chest. After the whole body-swap business he had thought them safe, but maybe he’d been wrong. So, one evening, he’d gone to the bookshop, barging in as if he belonged there (he hoped he did, good _God _how he hoped he finally did). And he’d found suitcases by the door, and Aziraphale sitting on the couch, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. Drinking alone and staring blankly ahead.

Crowley had been concerned. He’d been worried. He’d studied the angel’s face, already wondering what he could do to help, and he’d been taken aback when Aziraphale had looked back at him like a deer in the headlights, shifting uncomfortably in his couch because of Crowley’s presence. Because of Crowley, suddenly there in his bookshop, uninvited and unwelcome.

In short, Crowley had been a pathetic, deluded _fool_.

* * *

After dining at the Ritz with Crowley, Aziraphale had floated in a dream-like state from the Bentley to the door of his bookshop. He’d hesitated just for a moment before stopping on the steps, turning around, and beaming at Crowley, who’d got out of the car, crossed his arms over the hood, and rested his chin on his arms, watching him go.

Aziraphale had dropped his keys, picked them up, and opened the door with shaky hands. Once inside, he’d felt a wobbly smile taking over his face, warmth spreading across his cheeks, and an awkward flutter in the centre of his chest.

And he’d known he was in trouble.

* * *

Crowley watches Aziraphale almost drop his glass, then settle it down on the coffee table and standing up. “Sorry, I did not hear you come in.” He clears his throat. “You could have phoned to let me know you were coming.”

“I…” Crowley takes a step back, suddenly feeling very foolish. Then, he remembers, “I _did_ call you. You didn’t pick up.”

“Didn’t I?” Aziraphale asks, glancing to the side. “Mustn’t have heard.”

Crowley quickly decides to let it go in favour of the more pressing matter. “What’s with this?” He gestures towards the suitcases. “Are you leaving?”

Panic blares through his mind like a fire alarm when Aziraphale won’t meet his eyes. “Yes.”

“Wh—how long? Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure myself, to be honest.” Aziraphale turns his back on him, fiddling with one the many stacks of random books that litter the room. “And I would rather not disclose that information.”

Crowley opens his mouth and closes it again. He tries to find a logical explanation. Maybe Aziraphale has wanted to travel for a while, and couldn’t because of Heaven’s tight control on him. Or maybe he doesn’t feel safe here anymore, after what happened here.

But why be secretive about it with him of all people? They’ve walked around wearing each other’s bodies, for Heaven’s sake. Doesn’t he trust him?

“Can I come with?” Crowley asks to Aziraphale’s back and oh, he _loathes_ how small his voice sounds.

“I’m afraid not.” The angel replies with a sigh. Then, as Crowley scrambles for something else to say, he adds, “I’m departing tomorrow morning. My plane leaves at ten.”

That does it. Crowley was already thinking of a way to convince him not to go, or at least find out what this is actually about, but—he will have no time for that, if Aziraphale is leaving in the morning. He circles the angel, trying to force him to meet his gaze.

When he does, and Aziraphale’s sea-green eyes look back at him, guarded and guilty, he’s reminded too soon of something he wanted to forget: trying to convince Aziraphale to run away with him to the stars. In this case, he wants the angel to _stay_ – small difference, the rejection stings much the same. He takes a step forward, a loud, ugly anger taking over and swallowing any other emotion in its wake. “What the deuce is wrong with you?” He throws his hands up, standing straight and tall like a snake about to strike. “We’re finally free, we could do anything at all – and the first thing you do is _run away_?”

Aziraphale flinches, then he takes a deep breath and his expression hardens at Crowley’s harsh tone. He too raises his voice, “I don’t need your permission, Crowley. Do I?”

It’s the demon’s turn to recoil, struck by the truth in his words. That’s right, Aziraphale doesn’t need his permission. He never has. Then why does Crowley still feel like he’s _owed_ something – an explanation, if nothing else?

But the two of them, they… they’re friends. That’s it. Crowley is not his boss. He’s not his partner. He’s not his…

He’s not his _anything_, if not his enemy turned ally. And now that they don’t have sides anymore, where does that leave them?

He’d thought the answer was pretty clear. It leaves them on their own side, together. As friends. Best friends. Or… something else, maybe? Whatever, he doesn’t need it neatly packaged with a bow on top. He just wants—

He just _wants_.

He deflates.

“Tomorrow morning?” He asks, grinding his teeth despite himself as he waits for an answer.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale replies, holding his ground with a firm nod. _Good little soldier_, Crowley thinks, not for the first time. The angel has always been so good at staying in line, at pushing himself to do things he really doesn’t want to do. And – maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Crowley doesn’t really _feel_ like Aziraphale wants to leave. He’s quite sure the angel is forcing himself to do it. What for, he has no fucking clue.

He presses his lips together as an idea begins to form in his mind.

“So, tonight.” He says after a few seconds.

“What about tonight?” Aziraphale asks, blinking up at him.

“Tonight you’re still here.” He extends his hand towards the angel. “One night. Give me one night, and I swear that I will drive you to the airport myself if tomorrow morning you still decide to go.”

Aziraphale’s lips are thin and pale, the lines around his eyes harsh and deep. He looks at Crowley – really _looks_ at Crowley through the dark sunglasses – and slowly reaches out to take his hand and shake on it.

Whatever else is wrong with him, his hand is warm, and soft, and stronger than it appears. Crowley has trouble letting it go, but he does, thrusting his own hands in his pockets.

One night is nothing to an immortal being. It’s the blink of an eye. One night won’t be enough to convince Aziraphale to stay. And yet – one night can change everything, can’t it?

God and Satan and everyone in between, Crowley has to hope it can.

* * *

Aziraphale refrains from asking where they’re going. Tomorrow he’ll leave, but tonight is Crowley’s. He’s agreed to it. A moment of weakness, no doubt – but it was too hard to say no. Aziraphale has been saying no _a lot_ over the span of six thousand years. He’ll start again, tomorrow – right now, he’s exhausted of denying himself the pleasure of the demon’s company. And, well, denying himself a bunch of other things he really shouldn’t even be thinking about.

Crowley drives like a madman, of course, but Aziraphale doesn’t find it in himself to complain. Not this time. Soon enough, he’ll be on an airplane, watching London get smaller and smaller, flying over fields and seas, and then he’ll be on a crowded beach all by himself. The young man at the travel agency had a lot of fun picking his destination for him once he knew Aziraphale wanted to go somewhere warm, full of people, and that money was no object. His eyes shone as he made all the necessary arrangements. Aziraphale made sure the young man will win a vacation such as the one he planned for him, because he figured it has to be very hard, day in day out, to help people go on holidays you will never be able to afford.

It's just – it’s very hard to want something and never, ever get it.

The Bentley stops in a small alley. Aziraphale doesn’t ask any questions as he follows Crowley out of the car, but the demon offers an explanation anyway.

“First of all, I need a really stiff drink.” He opens a blue door under a sign that advertises beer and liquor and they walk into a dimly lit, smoky pub. “Not many people know you can get the best Moscow Mule in the city here.”

And indeed, there’s just a few people sitting at the tables, and only one lonely man slumped at the end of the bar. A very young lady – Aziraphale is not very good at estimating human’s ages, but she looks barely old enough to be tending such an establishment – approaches them with a big grin.

“Mr. Crowley!” She exclaims, patently happy to see him. Aziraphale notices she has tattoos from her wrists all the way up her arms. Her head is shaved on both sides, with longer hair on the top, starting out black and ending in forest-green tips. She looks demonic enough to be an acquaintance of Crowley, and yet she doesn’t _feel_ evil at all. “The usual?” Crowley nods. “For your friend, too?”

Aziraphale feels Crowley’s stare on him, as if he’s waiting for him to deny they’re friends. But Aziraphale won’t. They _are_ friends, whatever happens. Instead, he says, “I’ve never had a Moscow Mule before.” The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches in amusement, hearing the echo of one day in Rome, a few lifetimes ago. _Let me tempt you to…_

The demon gestures to the girl and gives her the go-ahead.

When Aziraphale’s drink arrives, he immediately realizes it’s really heavy on the vodka. He blinks. “My, this burns.”

“It’s the combination of alcohol and ginger.” Crowley explains.

Aziraphale can’t help the brief glance at his hair. “Must be.”

Crowley opens his mouth to speak but, in that moment, three shady looking men approach him from behind. One of them taps him on the shoulder. Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Give me a minute,” he tells Aziraphale as he calmly turns around, as if he’s not at all surprised to see them. “Guys. We talked about this. I’m retired now.”

Aziraphale doesn’t listen to their conversation, instead he clutches his copper cup, not sure how he feels about being in a place where random humans seem to know his demon so well. This must be one of his ‘spots’, then. A place from which he used to carry out his wiles before the thwarted Apocalypse. It makes sense, then, that he never brought Aziraphale here until now.

“He’ll be fine, you know?” Their young bartender tells him, giving him a quick wink.

“Oh, yes, I wasn’t worried…” He wills the frown away from his face and smiles at her. “Hello. What’s your name?”

“Chloe.” She replies with a nod.

“So nice to meet you.” He glances at Crowley’s back, lowers his voice a little. “Does he come here often?”

Chloe clicks her tongue in thought. “Not often, no. I don’t think he lives nearby, but maybe there’s some place around here he hangs at pretty regularly?” Well, the bookshop is just a few minutes away… “Generally he’ll swing by when he’s had a very bad day. He knows I’ll make his drink extra strong.” She grins, then eyes Aziraphale up and down, her gaze hesitating for a second on his tartan bowtie. “You’re the first friend he brings along, though.” She adds, an inquisitive air about her.

Aziraphale has already learned two things about Chloe the bartender: that she’s observant, and that she talks _a lot_. She sounds like she’s been waiting to talk about Crowley for a while, maybe fascinated by his mysterious attitude (_hah_, if only she knew). Then again – Aziraphale glances around them – there aren’t many people here she could have a conversation with, despite it being a pub. Few women, none her age, and all the men look like they’re a blink away from punching someone in the throat. Maybe she was just dying to talk to anyone about anything.

“I take it you’re quite fond of him.” Aziraphale says, trying not to make it sound like an inquiry.

“Well, first of all he really wouldn’t like me confirming something like that,” she smirks, confirming she does know Crowley quite well. “And second, I can’t really say I know him? He never talks about anything personal. He just drinks and asks questions.”

“Oh, does he now?” A quick glance to check that Crowley is still busy with the three men. He is. “What kind of questions?”

Chloe shrugs. “About business. How the pub’s been doing. How far behind I am on my loans.” A patron at one of the table calls to her, rudely tapping his glass. Chloe sighs and begins preparing another drink for him as she speaks. “The thing is, Mr…”

“Fell.”

“The thing is, Mr. Fell, that he’s kind of my lucky charm, I guess?” She sprays something inside a tall glass, all the while not taking her eyes off Aziraphale – he takes that to mean she’s quite good at her job. “I inherited this pub from my father when he passed away unexpectedly three years ago, and that’s when I found out he had a lot of debt to his name. But whenever Mr. Crowley comes here… ah, you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Not at all, Chloe.” He reassures her with an angelic smile. “Do go on.”

“Well, every time, the day after Mr. Crowley has been here, something good happens. Every single time. One time I found a lottery ticket and won enough money to pay off one of my loans completely. Another time I was very sick and really could have used a few days off, and my little sister – who generally never lifts a finger to help – offered to cover for me. Another time a water pipe burst and…”

Aziraphale sits there, listening to this small collection of miracles, heart twisting pitifully in his chest. Chloe goes on until she notices Crowley is about to turn back towards them. “I better shut up now, Mr. Fell.”

“Indeed.” He replies, and Chloe very quickly manages to look as if, this whole time, she’s been too busy mixing drinks to strike up a conversation with anyone. Clever girl.

“Well,” Crowley says, “That took a while.”

“Not a problem at all.” Aziraphale replies, and he means it.

“How’s your drink?”

“Oh,” He swirls it around in his cup. “If I were a regular human, a few of these would have me on the floor in no time at all.”

“Poor choice of words.” Crowley mutters under his breath, then adds, “Maybe that was my intention all along.”

“It was not.” Aziraphale replies softly, and decides against mentioning that he’s perfectly aware Crowley was looking for some liquid courage. “So, where to next?”

* * *

“Oh, this is ugly.” Aziraphale exclaims as they stand at the entrance of the Shard, looking up at the endless skyscraper, its last floors so high up they can’t be seen from the ground. “Gaudy. And, frankly, quite arrogant.”

“I know, right?” Crowley replies with a wide grin. “It’s perfect. Come on, let’s go up.”

Of course, the building isn’t open to the public at that time of night. That’s better, Crowley thinks, because it will be just the two of them. The doors open for them, the escalator slugs into motion under their feet. No one notices them walking in and the elevator is empty. Its four walls are covered with mirrors that fill with infinite reflections of the two of them as they step in. Over their heads, a screen shows footage of London from way up high, spanning all twenty-four hours of the day. Aziraphale looks up, and Crowley looks at him. These might be their last hours together before the angel slips through his fingers once more. And, this time, it feels like it’ll be for good.

The first elevator can only carry them halfway up so, on the thirty-third floor, they get off and switch to a second identical elevator that will bring them all the way to the top. Crowley looks up at the screen. He catches Aziraphale staring at him just as the elevator dings. Their eyes meet through the mirror for a split second, and the door opens.

The top floor of the Shard has walls completely made of glass. Crowley quickly miracles away imprints of tourists’ hands and toddlers’ mouths fogging up the view. Under the night sky, London sprawls all around them, shining through thousands of windows. A veritable anthill of human life, complicated, fragile, and at the mercy of an unknowable God – as the two of them know very well.

Crowley circles the floor once, then stops behind Aziraphale, who’s looking east, across the Thames. Just like he did in Eden, at the beginning. Old habits die hard, Crowley muses to himself.

“Why are we here?” Aziraphale asks, gaze lost into the distance.

“Well…” He walks around the angel to lean back against the glass, pointing west-northwest. “Just thought I’d remind you of all your favourite places. Look, the bookshop’s over there.”

Of course, from so high up, they can’t actually see it, but they both know it must be in the general direction Crowley is looking towards. In silent agreement, they move to the glass wall that faces north.

“You can see all of them from here. Like…” He scratches the underside of his chin with two knuckles. “Look, there’s the small Italian restaurant you like that makes homemade pasta, down by the docks. And that way there’s that little fish and chips place under the Waterloo station where the walls shake every single time a train passes overhead. Victoria Palace Theatre must be somewhere over there. The National Gallery – that’s close enough to see. Uh, sort of.”

Crowley ignores a pointed look from Aziraphale.

“Do you remember how much you enjoyed the Museum of London, the first time we went? What was it you said – ah, right, ‘_surprisingly accurate, all things considered_’.” He snorts and turns west. “Greenwich Park is that way. Would be a nice sport for a picnic, I reckon.”

“Crowley—”

Crowley steps away from him, turns west, and keeps pointing through the glass. “The Ritz. Over there, and your favourite sushi place, what’s it called…”

“Crowley, there’s—”

“And there’s a new French restaurant in Notting Hill, did I tell you? We should check it out, I read a review that said—”

“Crowley, please stop.” The demon shuts his mouth and shoves his hands into his pockets as far as they will go, which is not much. “I am perfectly aware of what I’m leaving behind.”

Crowley swallows. “Right.”

He keeps his expression perfectly neutral as Aziraphale walks up behind him, and doesn’t miss the angel’s hand starting to reach out for his arm, stopping mid-air, dropping back down. “Show me your favourite place.” He gives Crowley a small, tentative smile. “Beside my bookshop, that is.”

Crowley can tell Aziraphale was going for a joke, and missed the obvious truth in his own words. Well, he won’t be the one to point that one out.

“Can’t be seen from here.” He mutters, his foul mood turning sourer as he realizes his strategy did not pan out at all. He _knows what he’s leaving behind_, apparently. Cool. Good to know. Crowley has eaten nothing today and yet feels like he might throw up.

“Bring me there?” Aziraphale asks, and fuck if Crowley doesn’t want to reply _yes _and _no_ at the same time. Then again, they only have one night, don’t they? And the angel might very well leave in the morning, unless he somehow manages to change his mind. Behind his dark glasses, Crowley turns his gaze to the sky. He really needs a miracle, and not the kind he can pull off himself.

He sighs.

“Fine. Come on, it’s a long way there.” He says, turning back to the elevator.

* * *

Aziraphale twists the ring around his finger as the Bentley zips through the night. For once, he’s not fretting about Crowley’s driving – horrid as it is. But he did feel a cold chill licking up his spine as he realized Crowley could list all of his favourite places without even having to think about it, while he would be hard pressed to do the same for him. Sure, there are some he’s aware the demon likes. And sure, he’s much more straightforward than Crowley with his praise and appreciation. But still. A new layer of guilt plopped on top of the rest, and he couldn’t bear it anymore. Besides… he has the impression Crowley thinks he likes eating much more than he actually does. Sure, he enjoys it – but it’s also the first thing the two of them got to do together. Not too intimate, not too forbidden. Just two acquaintances, going out for oysters together, the first of many meals they got to share. Still the easiest thing to do together, after all these years.

Crowley isn’t saying a word. The yellow light from the streetlights flashes across his face, and Aziraphale can’t see a single emotion on it. He must be very mad. Then again, what was he expecting? For Crowley to understand? For Crowley to be happy about him leaving? Of course not.

And, if Aziraphale had to be honest with himself – he would have been heartbroken if Crowley hadn’t been distraught about his departure, if he hadn’t tried to stop him. It’s cruel of him, and it’s selfish, and really keeping his mouth shut while Crowley drives is the least he can do.

So he keeps quiet. For three whole hours until, all of a sudden, Crowley stops the car.

Aziraphale had closed his eyes and leaned against the window. He blinks himself alert and takes a look around. There’s… nothing. Just pitch black darkness. Crowley bends down to grab a flashlight from under his seat.

“Get the blanket from the back seat.”

Aziraphale turns around and, sure enough, there is a soft, sturdy blanket there. He picks it up and gets out of the car. As he does, he notices they’re parked at the side of the road, somewhere deserted. He hears night birds and bugs, and the moon is a tiny sliver over their heads. He can’t see very far, but he doesn’t think there are any buildings nearby. Just grass and trees. Then again, his Crowley (_his?)_ has always been a fan of wide, open spaces. It makes sense, considering how crowded and cramped Hell is all the time.

He follows Crowley down an unmarked path, and if his heart gives a flutter or two – well, it’s a bit exciting, isn’t it? An unknown place, just the two of them under the stars. Aziraphale would never go somewhere like this alone, afraid of getting lost, but he trusts Crowley completely to get them both home safe. He mentally corrects himself – to get them to the _airport_ safe. His heart sinks in his chest.

They get to a clearing, and Crowley takes the blanket from his hands to place it on the ground. He drops down onto it, and Aziraphale does the same, gingerly lowering himself on the blanket.

The flashlight sits between them, its cone of yellow light showing absolutely nothing but grass and dirt. Aziraphale frowns at the darkness all around them. Surely Crowley must know that, if this is his favourite place, the angel can’t see any of it at the moment. He raises an eyebrow and turns to him.

Crowley’s face is lighted from below, its sharp edges casting long shadows on his skin. He’s hauntingly beautiful, but then again, he’s always been. In between a whole conversation about ducks and barking at Aziraphale for his stupid magic tricks, sometimes the light hits Crowley just right, and his eyes can be seen through his dark glasses and, for a fleeting moment, the angel can look deeper inside him. He can see the pain and the rejection and the longing, the thousand burning questions that never found an answer.

Crowley falls back on the blanket, pointing wordlessly at the night sky over their heads. Aziraphale tilts his head up, and yes, he can see it too, now. It’s breathtaking.

“Oh,” he says, because really, what else is there to say? “You can’t see them like this anywhere in the city.” He drops his gaze to the demon lying next to him. “I had almost forgotten how beautiful they can be.”

“Yeah. Miss them sometimes.” Crowley replies quietly. “I helped make some of them. _Before_.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide and he looks at Crowley, then back up at the stars. “I do regret a bit never knowing you, _before_. I knew _of_ you, of course.” In the impersonal, distant way every angel is aware of the existence of all of their siblings, that is.

“Why?” Crowley manages a shrug from where he’s lying. “You couldn’t have saved me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I—” Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose that’s fair. I might have wanted to save you, back then. Now… I’m starting to think you’re the one who made the right choice, and I was a fool.”

Crowley immediately props himself up on his elbows. “Angel, I didn’t mean—”

“No need. It’s true.” He shakes his head. “And I will be fine, it’s just all a bit sudden for a creature of habit such as myself. What I meant was… that I would have liked to be your friend when you needed one, I suppose. _After_. That’s all.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, Aziraphale looking at Crowley out of the corner of his eye, the demon watching him with a frown on his face.

“I remember when you were made.” Crowley mutters, and Aziraphale turns to him fully, lips parted in surprise and both eyebrow raised. “Towards the end of the First Day. When She realized She was going to need warriors.”

Aziraphale ruefully smiles to himself. “Ah, well… I’m afraid I was a bit of a disappointment in that regard.”

He feels Crowley’s eyes on him, heavy and focused. “You fought when it was the time to.” A bit of a smile slips into his voice as he adds, “I distinctly remember someone threatening to never speak to me again if I gave up.”

“That I did. I don’t regret it, by the way.” He chuckles softly. “I still can’t believe we got out of the whole ordeal alive.”

“Are you really going to leave?”

Aziraphale’s smile freezes on his face at the question shot point-blank in the dark. But there is only one answer he can give.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can’t explain.” That’s not entirely true, he can. He could. But it would be very painful. Besides… Crowley has a way of talking him out of things he doesn’t want to do in the first place. It’s too dangerous, his will is already fragile to start with, and every minute spent with Crowley erodes it a little bit more.

Crowley scoffs, standing up and taking a few steps away from him. Aziraphale knows he’s getting angry before he even opens his mouth – because it’s just what Crowley _does_ when he’s hurt, and they’re too old and have known each other for too long not to be able to tell.

“It would always be like this, wouldn’t it? Even if you decided to stay.” He kicks a rock; it hits the ground a few feet away from them with a soft thump. “Even _now_, even when we’ve bloody earned our freedom, it’s still too fast for you, isn’t it?”

“You make it sound so easy, Crowley, but—”

“_Bollocks_, Aziraphale. It _is_ easy. There’s literally just the two of us now. Doesn’t get any easier than that.”

Crowley’s tone has dropped to a low growl, and Aziraphale’s voice rises to meet it. “Do you really believe I would leave the place that has been my home for the last two centuries if I didn’t have a good reason to?”

“So why?!” Crowley spreads his arms out in exasperation. “Why would you leave? Who’s forcing you?”

“_I _am forcing myself, Crowley. Because someone here has to be responsible, and it bloody well won’t be you.”

Crowley recoils. “What the Heaven does that even mean?”

“I…” Aziraphale’s throat closes up, and he has to take a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve been watching you be reckless for as long as I’ve known you, Crowley. And that leaves me having to worry about the both of us.”

“That’s not—”

“Yes, it is. Do you really think they wouldn’t have found out about our arrangement if I hadn’t been so careful for thousands of years?” He has his hands balled up into fists now, to stop them from shaking – but it’s not really working. “Do you think I’ve enjoyed living like this? Before opening my mouth – every single time, every single person I have talked to – I’ve had to think about what I was going to say, and how it might be used against me.”

He stands up too now, yanking the blanket off the ground. “Or worse… against _you_.” He adds, before turning his back on Crowley and walking back to the Bentley.

He won’t cry. He won’t. This is already too pathetic as it is. He blinks several times as he approaches the car, but before he can open the door – or maybe decide he’d rather walk all the way back to London – Crowley’s fingers close around his wrist, gentle but firm.

“Angel,” he calls, but Aziraphale doesn’t turn around. “There’s no need for any of that anymore. We’re safe now.”

Aziraphale swallows. “Are we?”

“What—why wouldn’t we be? What’s wrong?” There’s real concern in his voice, as if he’s expecting a platoon of angels to suddenly drop in on the two of them. He’s so far off the mark it’s almost endearing.

“How can you not see?” Aziraphale realizes that it’s a bit of a funny question to ask, in the dark that surrounds them. “We only have each other now.”

“Yes.” Crowley says, circling him, putting himself between Aziraphale and the car. “We’re on our own side. ‘S what I’ve been telling you.”

“And what happens if…” He takes a deep breath, looks away. “What if I’m not… what if you end up regretting your choice?”

Crowley stares at him for a few long seconds, trying to parse what he’s saying. “Regretting?” He asks, as if he’s never heard that word before. “What the Heaven are you on about, Aziraphale? I could never regret… _ever_. Why would you even...”

It’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t believe him. He does. Crowley doesn’t think he could ever regret it... _right now_. And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Crowley’s terrifying tendency to throw himself into things – so fast, always so fast. But how will he feel in a hundred years? What about in a thousand years?

If they only have each other, and it doesn’t work out, then they’ll both be left with nothing. And Aziraphale just cannot stand the thought of losing him. Keeping Crowley at arm’s length still means keeping him, in some capacity.

He stares at his shoes, though he can barely see them. Crowley steps closer, a hand holding the flashlight, the other raised towards Aziraphale’s face. It stops before reaching him.

“Angel,” he says again, sounding all but defeated. “It’s been six thousand blasted years. Isn’t it time for a little leap of faith?”

Aziraphale can’t bring himself to answer. Instead, he steps around Crowley, opening the door and getting into the car. One single thought in his mind: until the sun rises, they still have time to be together.

* * *

That’s it, then. Aziraphale is really leaving in the morning. There’s nothing else Crowley can say or do, except drive him to the airport as promised. Why did he have to promise that? Oh, right. He thought he’d be able to convince Aziraphale to stay. Because, again, he’s an unredeemable fool.

He turns around, ready to get into the driver’s seat and help Aziraphale stomp on what’s left of his heart – but he straightens up in surprise as he notices the angel is sitting in the backseat of the Bentley.

He ducks his head inside and lets out a rather undignified sound when Aziraphale reaches out to touch the thin strip of fabric Crowley wears around his neck as a tie. “Angel?” Aziraphale wraps the grey fabric around his fingers and pulls, tugging him closer. Crowley drops the flashlight, distantly hears it rolling under the passenger seat.

He keeps himself upright – kind of – with a knee planted on the seat as he’s guided to bend down, towards the angel’s face. He’s forgotten to breathe as he stares into his eyes, in the semi-darkness of the car. Aziraphale seems to be looking at his mouth.

Aziraphale seems to be looking at his _mouth_.

_Oh_. Aziraphale _is_ looking at his mouth.

“Are you really going to leave?” Crowley asks for the second time, against his better judgement.

Aziraphale nods.

And Crowley – fuck it all. He makes a mental note, in the next life, to be the kind of person who likes things that are easy and straightforward. Then, he follows Aziraphale’s suggestions and slowly leans in closer, until the angel’s breath tickles his lower lip.

Six thousand years and they barely touched. Couldn’t, really. A few handshakes. Very clean and professional. And it’s not like they _need_ to touch. They are supernatural beings, the physical vessels they inhabit are just a temporary shell.

And yet. In a sense, they really have gone native, living like overpowered humans rather than undercover angels. Most of all, Crowley needs a place to put all this _love_ – because that’s what it is, isn’t it? – before he chokes on it.

Aziraphale kisses the corner of his lips and Crowley gasps in the space between them, unable to hear himself over the roaring in his ears. Satan forgive him, but how he _wants_ – and, what’s more, Aziraphale _wants_ too. Whatever hang-ups and fears he has, the pull between them is undeniable, and Crowley just—he can’t—he doesn’t—

He fists the soft fabric of Aziraphale’s coat with both hands, willing him to change his mind. _Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave me._

Crowley will never take more than is freely offered to him. He’ll nudge, and knock, and tempt – but he won’t _shove_. And if Aziraphale is offering this tonight, and then he’ll get on an airplane and come back in a few decades with new sturdy walls built around his heart – then Crowley will take it, even if it rips him open and leaves him bleeding.

However… if it will devastate him, and Crowley doesn’t much care about that – what will it do to Aziraphale?

The angel is wrong. He’s not the only one who’s been worrying for the both of them, all this time. Maybe he’s unable to see it, because the two of them are so different, but Crowley is terrified, too. But the fear of fucking something up is far quieter than the fear of losing him again.

He pulls back. It feels like pushing a boulder up a mountain, but he pulls back. “This isn’t right.”

“Crowley, I want—” Aziraphale starts.

“That’s exactly the bloody problem, isn’t it?” Crowley puts a hand over his cheekbone, where Aziraphale’s eyelashes were fluttering just a moment before. “And then you’ll get on a plane and go… I don’t know, to live in a village on top of a mountain, and torment yourself over this for years.” He pauses, suddenly feeling a bit stupid for assuming Aziraphale would think about him for years to come, and even more stupid for saying it out loud. “I mean, wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale gives him a complicated expression, and the darkness doesn’t help. His eyes are shining and his eyebrows are knitted together, he’s sucking in his lower lip but he’s also… smiling, sort of? Bless him, Crowley is in so over his head he doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

“Aziraphale?”

“You…” Aziraphale shakes his head. “You really are a terrible demon.”

“I—_excuse me_?”

* * *

It feels like stretching out his wings after keeping the cramped against his back for decades on end. Like putting down a heavy bag of books after carrying it around the whole day. Like stepping out of a tight pair of shoes upon coming home. It feels like letting go.

He smiles, suddenly calm. Maybe because they’re in the eye of the storm, now.

“Demons are supposed to be vile.” He explains, “Foul creatures who do nothing but evil.”

Crowley frowns. Aziraphale can almost hear him thinking, _why d’you have to twist the knife? _“’S what I am, yes.”

“Chloe, from the pub. You’ve been helping her out for a while, now.”

“I didn’t bring you there to—” He stops, blinks. “What did she tell you?” Aziraphale smiles, saying nothing. “That’s—you—whatever she said, I’m just a fan of her drinks, that’s all.”

“It’s a big city. There are other places.” Aziraphale states, matter-of-factly. “Speaking of which… you know all my places, don’t you? All my favourite restaurants, theatres, museums…”

“I’ve known you a long time.”

Aziraphale reaches out once more, and Crowley’s gaze drops to his fingers as they find his jacket and pull.

_You’ve loved me for a long time_, Aziraphale thinks, because he can feel it, he can sense it now just as he sensed it sprouting and growing over the centuries. He doesn’t say it out loud, because the choice to put it into words belongs to Crowley and no one else, but all the same, it’s impossible to miss. Even if he’s tried to ignore it for as long as it has existed.

_You’ve wanted me for a long time_. This is an assumption, mainly based on Aziraphale’s own repressed desires. But if he’s right, and Crowley surely did seem interested just a minute ago, then… the demon has just turned down something he’s been yearning after for thousands of years. Because he’s been thinking long-term. Because he was worried about Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale… he’s sitting in the Bentley with a plane ticket in the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to leave. With one foot nervously, permanently out the door.

His face grows hot with shame. When has he become such a coward? No, that’s not right – he isn’t a coward. He’s needed to tread carefully since he was created, if he wanted to survive. But maybe… maybe, in this new world, it’s time he learns how to throw caution to the wind.

“I’m a fool.” He mutters to himself, and Crowley watches him with worry, clearly not following his train of thought, through no fault of his own. “This whole time… I’ve been trying to keep us safe. I didn’t realize – there is no way I’m always going to be able to keep us safe. I have not, in the past, not all the time. And I can’t now. I’m going to have to take some risks.”

Crowley’s face opens into something so hopeful it makes Aziraphale’s heart twist in his chest. “You’re going to give it a chance.” He says, and it’s not a question. He wraps his fingers around Aziraphale’s hand, the one that’s still holding onto his jacket. “Because you realized there’s no risk of me ever regretting it?”

“No.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Because you’re _worth_ the risk.”

And there it is, at last, out in the open. Fragile and delicate and wobbly on its newborn legs, but finally out in the open.

* * *

Crowley would like to say something, probably _should_ say something. But he’s all out of words.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale says, and the new endearment has Crowley bracing himself against the back of the seat with one arm. “I’m afraid I made a mess of things.”

Crowley recalls sitting in a pub, clutching a bottle, hearing the spirit of Aziraphale speaking those exact words. The angel’s way of saying he’s sorry without saying it at all. Crowley distinctly remembers Aziraphale bumping into a chair just the other week and apologizing to it – but he understands that, for the two of them, apologizing to an inanimate object is much easier than apologizing to each other.

He breathes in, deciding he’ll wordlessly accept the unspoken apology.

Aziraphale tugs him in and Crowley raises a hand to touch his cheek, almost surprised when they don’t explode. The angel tilts his head to the side, staring at Crowley’s lips, clearly angling for a kiss.

“Would it be all right now?” He asks, very softly, eyelashes fluttering in a way that makes Crowley’s mouth go dry.

“Are you still going to leave?” His voice comes out thick and scratchy. It’s the third time he repeats this question tonight. _Like the denial of Peter_, he thinks, distantly, _he has to be asked three times._ This is the last one, though.

“No.” Aziraphale says, at last.

“Then yes.” He replies, and Aziraphale pulls him in the rest of the way, his lips soft and open for him.

Crowley hears himself make a noise – something like a whimper, if he had to be honest – because it burns, in a sense, from his mouth all the way to his chest, to his hands, to his stomach, to his toes. This is such a stark contrast to Aziraphale’s everlasting cautious friendliness. There is nothing guarded about the way the angel opens under his lips, nothing mild about the way he pulls Crowley in, wanting him closer, closer, impossibly closer still.

They’ve seen humans doing this for thousands of years. A bit embarrassing to watch, actually, with all the weird sounds and flailing limbs. But oh – _oh_. He gets it now. They’re so close and yet, somehow, still not close enough. While Crowley’s brain is trying to catch up with his body and figure out what to do next, Aziraphale’s hands are already slipping his black jacket off his shoulders, smooth as anything. Because of course he is. This is Aziraphale’s playing field, isn’t it? Not just _love_, but also _pleasure_.

Crowley… sure, he likes things, but he never indulges. He likes his fast car and his beautiful, complicated angel, he likes his music and his lush, anxious plants. But it’s Aziraphale who chases after five-course meals, velvety vintages, luxurious fabrics and priceless first editions.

And if the switch in Aziraphale’s head has finally been turned on, and he’ll allow himself to enjoy this at last… then he’ll have no trouble at all finding his way through this. Crowley, on the other hand—

Their kiss turns wet and sloppy, Aziraphale breaks it to focus on his throat instead, making Crowley produce another series of undignified noises as he hungrily licks and nips at the sensitive skin around his pulse. Crowley wants to say something – but he’s not sure what, and the part of his brain that processes words seems to be out of order at the moment. Aziraphale _moans_ into his skin, as if he’s tasting something downright scrumptious, and Crowley’s spine tenses like a violin string.

And then he feels _teeth_, and his world flips upside down all over again. Aziraphale has definitely just bitten him – and he’s not stopping, sucking over the bite mark he’s just made. Crowley realizes he’s gaping like a fish, but thankfully the angel can’t see him. He sinks his fingers into Aziraphale’s curls, enchanted by how soft they feel under his hand.

He has to let go when something starts tugging at his arms – oh, Aziraphale is taking off his shirt. Crowley doesn’t help along, at first, busy trying to decipher what’s happening. Aziraphale, yes, his Aziraphale, he’s trying to get rid of his shirt, yes, the shirt he wears to cover his upper body, that shirt, he’s tugging it up and it’s getting stuck at his armpits, because – because Crowley has a bad case of whiplash, and he’s just now realizing that Aziraphale _is taking off his clothes_ because he _wants him without any layer on_. For… looking? Not like he can see very well in this darkness. Crowley slowly starts lifting his arms. _Come on, you’re not that dumb, you know what’s happening here_, he tells himself in his head.

_Of course I do, I just can’t believe it’s happening._

Oh, his shirt is off.

Oh. Aziraphale is unbuttoning his jeans. God, his fingers are so warm, the palm of his hand pressed against the skin just below his navel, sliding down, into his jeans, lower and lower and—

“_Angel!_”

* * *

Aziraphale giggles. He can’t help it. He’s so happy. And Crowley… he’s all but venting smoke from his ears, which is – well, _endearing_, although that word might seem weird for a wily old demon such as him.

His dear, dear Crowley. Who has the patience of a saint – and who would scold him very much for saying so. Crowley, so beautiful with his chest bare except for that weird scrap of grey fabric he wears around his neck, with his cheeks flushed, his gaze unfocused, his body trembling against his hand. He must not even realize he’s squirming, alternating between pressing closer and pulling away.

But when Aziraphale slides a hand inside his jeans, inside his underwear – _God, he’s wanted to do this for so long_ – he finds him hard and a little wet at the tip and just lovely. His free hand tugs down his jeans, so tight he’s not sure how Crowley puts them on every morning.

“Will you help me, Crowley?” He nibbles at his jawline, his own erection straining painfully inside his trousers. “Please?”

Crowley nods energetically, his glasses slipping off his face and onto the floor. He doesn’t seem to care one bit. He hooks his fingers into his jeans and underwear and pulls everything down, and he must have used a quick miracle too, because suddenly his shoes and socks are nowhere to be found.

Crowley seems to realize, belatedly, that he’s now naked on top of a completely dressed angel. He makes an embarrassed, incomprehensible sound straight from his throat.

Aziraphale thinks about the way he likes to touch himself, and tries to do the same for Crowley, moving his hand up and down, giving a little squeeze each time he’s at the head. “How is—”

“Good. _Fuck_. Great.” Crowley blurts out with three distinct ragged breaths.

With the hand that isn’t on Crowley’s cock, Aziraphale snaps his fingers and pulls into existence a small source of light on the ceiling of the car. Crowley shuts his eyes tight and turns his head to the side, blushing a darker shade of red all the way down his neck, and Aziraphale can finally see him all over.

This physical vessel is part of Crowley and it isn’t, is important and it isn’t – Aziraphale would love him in any shape. But Crowley inhabits this one so well, and it’s been so many years, it’s hard to think of it as just a temporary shell. Aziraphale’s gaze glides over the beautiful, taut lines where his neck meets his shoulder, and he notices with some pride the dark marks his teeth have left on him. The demon’s slender chest looks – almost delicate, his breathing fast and laboured, and when Aziraphale reaches out to touch him he’s soft and smooth. “I want…” He starts, not knowing where he’ll end. Crowley still has one knee on the seat, and when Aziraphale’s eyes travel lower, he takes in the sharp hipbones, the trail of red hair starting from his navel and dipping lower. “I want you to know how beautiful you are.”

Crowley makes a noise and his cock twitches in Aziraphale’s hand. His – well, that’s lovely, too. Hot and full, hard as marble in his hand and yet softer all around, quite long rather than thick, the complete opposite of Aziraphale’s own.

And then Crowley’s long, impossibly long legs, the shape of which Aziraphale already knows very well thanks to the demon’s choices when it comes to clothing. Lithe and muscular, and just—just perfect, really.

He’s aware Crowley’s corporation must have flaws to someone else’s eyes, and maybe many of them. Maybe they’d find him too thin, too weaselly, maybe they’d think him ungraceful as he takes up too much space, his limbs sprawled everywhere he sits. To Aziraphale, though, it’s a gift he’s allowed to see him and touch him like this, and actually – he’s all the more ashamed if he ever made him feel unwanted.

“Crowley, I’ve always wanted—I couldn’t but oh, _how_ I wanted…” He licks his lips, pushing himself up again towards the demon’s mouth. “Please, please tell me you know.”

Crowley turns back to him, eyes yellow from corner to corner. It takes him a few seconds to focus enough to answer. “I thought so, but—I wasn’t sure. You…” He glances down, and it seems like the sight of Aziraphale’s hand pumping is cock is too much for him, because he tears his gaze away immediately, blushing all the way to his ears. “I know _now_. Angel, listen…” He drops a kiss on his cheekbone, another on his jaw. “We’ve fought for this. We deserve it. You can have everything you want now—just take it.”

“I want you,” he says, the words slipping out before he can think, before he can stop himself. “I want you so much I cannot bear it.”

“I _am_ a terrible demon.” Crowley brings Aziraphale’s free hand to his lips, kisses his palm. “You already have me. It’s…” He lets out a breathy, short laugh. “It’s really been quite annoying.”

Aziraphale smiles, and he has half a mind to keep stroking him, to really take everything he wants, but – thinking for two is something he’s been doing for thousands of years, and he won’t stop now. Even when Crowley offers himself earnestly and wholeheartedly.

“And what do _you_ want?”

Crowley rolls his hips into his hand, hissing at the sensation.

“Crowley?”

* * *

Everything. Anything. He’s having trouble holding a conversation but Aziraphale just won’t shut up, and Crowley isn’t sure he wants him to. He has such a lovely voice right now, heated and velvety, and maybe Crowley does need something to distract him, something that will stop him from exploding right there and then in Aziraphale’s hand.

What does he want? He might very well finish like this. However…

He reaches down and begins the hard, long task of undoing Aziraphale’s clothes. The angel lets go of his cock and sits back, watching him with a small, awed smile. He tries to help, but Crowley gently swats his hands away. _Please. I deserve to do this myself._

He kisses every patch of skin he bares. The pulse on Aziraphale’s wrist, when he unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve. The spot between his collarbones, as he opens his shirt. Over his heart and above his navel, on the soft belly that would make the perfect spot for a nap or ten. Lower still, where his thigh meets his body – and _Satan help him,_ Aziraphale’s thighs…

The angel wraps his fingers into the hair on the top of Crowley’s hair, nudging him with a sharp tug, and Crowley understands – and sinks his teeth into the plump flesh of his thigh. Aziraphale moans in pleasure, and Crowley instantly decide that’s it, that’s the best sound he’s ever heard on this earth.

He barely resists until Aziraphale is completely naked before closing his lips around his cock all the way to its base, sighing around it as he lets his eyes roll back. How long has he been wanting to do just this? Put that singular tongue of his to good use on his angel? Possibly since learning this was a thing he could do with it.

“Oh dear…” Aziraphale’s voice sounds vaguely faint. “That’s—_oh_—that’s wonderful, Crowley, good Lord…”

Crowley feels pride blossoming in his chest and decides in that moment that he’ll get out of Aziraphale as many sounds as he can possibly get. On instinct alone, he figures this would be a good time to start sucking, so he does. Aziraphale tastes like… it’s hard to place. Those old-fashioned soap bars he loves so much. But also, something very human, like sweat, and something stronger still Crowley couldn’t name. Maybe more animal than human, even – and that last thought is _way too much_ and he almost loses it right there.

He elects to focus on Aziraphale’s sounds, on the words mindlessly slipping out his mouth, rather than following his own thoughts down a rabbit hole that might lead to coming untouched all over the Bentley’s seat.

“Crowley! Oh, more—yes…” He bobs his head up and down, slowly, speeding up little by little, trying to find Aziraphale’s speed – and isn’t that a funny thought? _Aziraphale’s speed_, as if that isn’t what he’s been trying to figure out this whole time.

“Ah, my dearest, you’re so—how can you—God, Crowley…” The demon realizes he can use his hands, too. Right now they’re keeping Aziraphale’s luscious thighs apart, but there’s no need for that. In the cramped space of the car, the angel is already opening his legs as much as he possibly can. For him. So Crowley slips a hand lower, cupping him, the other closing around the base of his cock.

“Yes, like that, oh, oh that’s the most—the best—you’re perfect, you’re—”

He’s never heard Aziraphale’s voice breaking like that, sounding like that. He’s never heard him lose track of what he’s saying like that. His own cock is so hard it’s becoming painful not to touch it. But Aziraphale’s hips lift off the seat a bit, and he leaks a little bit into his mouth, and he’s close, so Crowley keeps going, until—

“_Stop_!”

Okay, that wasn’t what he was going for.

He stills, slowly removing his lips and hands from him, looking up at Aziraphale with concern.

“I was about to…” The angel tries to explain, panting. “I didn’t want… not without you.”

Crowley’s face contorts into a pout against his will, because that’s the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever heard, and every second he spends with Aziraphale is making him a little less evil and a little more sentimental.

Also – that’s really, _really_ hot.

* * *

“Come up here, won’t you?” Aziraphale asks, reaching for him, unwilling to lose contact even for just a moment.

Crowley complies, although it takes them a bit of manoeuvring to find a suitable position.

“Next time, fancy hotel, huge bed. Maybe a hot tub too.” Crowley growls, banging his knee against the side of the car. Then, his face falls. “I mean…”

It takes Aziraphale a moment to catch up. _Oh_. He said ‘next time’. The angel can’t help a giddy little laugh. “Of course, dearest. Of course there’s going to be a next time.” He kisses him, soft and hungry. “Fancy hotel, whatever you’d like. Just come here.”

Crowley blinks at him, as if he’s having some trouble accepting this is actually happening. Then, he seems to shrug it off, lets the angel’s hands guide him until he’s straddling him. He presses down until they’re flush against each other, both of them moaning at the same time. This. This is what Aziraphale wanted. He’s so tired of worrying, so tired of running. So tired of being lonely. They’re going to do this together, now and then the next time, and the time after that, and again until he’s erased all their fears. Until he’s made up for his undecidedness.

Crowley has already forgiven him, he knows. He can feel it. The love inside the car is so thick it makes his head spin – good thing he’s sitting down. And then Crowley gathers both their cocks into his graceful, lovely fingers, makes them just a little slick – and it’s all downhill from there.

“Can you… like this?” Aziraphale manages to ask, because he’ll be damned if he won’t make sure both of them are enjoying this.

Crowley makes a low, guttural sound before answering. “Are you kidding? I’ve been holding myself back.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale exclaims. “Well… don’t.”

“Bossy.” Crowley mutters, a grin on his face.

And Aziraphale wants to reply, he really does, but the words die on his lips as his brain whites out, a pleasure like he’s never known before racking through his body. He’s vaguely aware of Crowley following him, of the sticky heat on his chest and stomach, of the demon’s hand never leaving them until they’re both completely, utterly spent.

* * *

They watch the sun rise over the field – which is lovely even in the daylight, something Crowley had long since forgotten – tangled together in something the demon wouldn’t be caught dead calling _cuddling_. It’s not cuddling. It’s… being very, very close, an arm around his angel, tracing circles on his shoulder with his index finger, it’s Aziraphale resting his head against the curve of his neck, a hand caressing up and down his thigh, over the jeans he’s had to put back on as night became day.

Then, Aziraphale reaches inside his jacket, pulling out his plane ticket – and Crowley, for a moment, forgets to breathe. He won’t leave, right? He won’t. He said…

“Oh. So sorry.” Aziraphale says quickly, and when he runs his thumb over the ticket, there’s suddenly two of them. “Magic trick.” He smiles up at him, glowing. Happy. “If you’d like a break from the city, that is.”

“Uh,” Crowley replies, intelligently. “I could use a break, yes.”

“Then it’s settled.” Aziraphale sighs, pleased, relaxing back down in Crowley’s embrace. “We’re going to have to leave pretty soon, though, or we’ll miss our flight.”

“We’ll make it on time.” He kisses the top of Aziraphale’s head, over his soft, blond hair, and sits there in wonder of how a night really can change everything. Although, maybe, it’s been a long time coming anyway.

“Oh, and don’t forget,” Aziraphale quips, “You owe Chloe a miracle, she’ll be expecting it today.”

“Wh—how—you—” Crowley stutters, then decides he doesn’t want to know. He sighs. “Why do humans talk to you all the time?”

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale replies, batting his eyelashes. “It is my job to be approachable and trustworthy.”

“Nope.” Crowley says, popping the _p_. “You’re literally the only angel who tries to be approachable and trustworthy. All the other angels are trying to be distant and terrifying, _especially_ to the humans.”

“Oh, well…” Aziraphale pouts for a second, then gives him that little wicked grin of his that Crowley adores. “I’m a bad angel, then.”

“How lucky.” He smiles back before burying his nose into Aziraphale’s curls. It feels like a dream, and he suspect it’ll feel like that for a long, long time to come. “That makes two of us.”

**Author's Note:**

> I want to be one of those cool people that says things like BLANKET PERMISSION TO ART/PODFIC/TRANSLATE THIS OWO  
But the truth is that of course you can do that to any of my fics, and I will very uncoolly (is that a word?) squeal at you for a very long time ❤️


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